The City Still Breathing (15 page)

Her taste in his mouth, her warmth, the warmth of blood in his mouth. Crawling down to the creek on hands and knees, sucking water, spitting, trying to get the taste from inside him.
Le thrill est gone, bébé, it's gone pour de bon
.

Then around the creek bend, something comes.

A black shape.

A log.

Not a log.

A body.

Floating toward him. Floating by him. Pirouetting in the middle of the creek, the head swinging back toward him before it floats on and on out of sight. On and on and on, the current sweeping it away. The face – that blank expression, like death had come slinking in.

He lets go. Rum and menthol and okra. He's puking his guts out, everything he's ever eaten. He's puking out his knees and toes, the soles of his feet, every part of his body coming up in a rush, puking himself inside out, retching the last bits of colour from his body, spilling out like a wet rainbow, leaving only blue, blue blue blue, the blue of the creek, the blue of the sky, the blue of Moony.
Il est disparu for good
.

A light goes on. A light on his face. A voice asking him if he's all right, sir. A voice asking him what his name is, sir.

Moony opens his mouth and the words are there, so many words. ‘I'm a teacher. I teach music.'

15

H
eck Gilchrist watches Slim walk away, watches him go with his shoulders all hunched up in that T-shirt like he's immune to the cold, thinks, I'll go when I can't see him anymore. Slim reaching the top of the park and heading off down the alley, Heck straining his neck until he's out of sight.

He watches the yellow car across the street, thinking, I'll just keep a lookout until Slim makes it to the Bin. I'll go when he makes the corner on Grey. Back to the warm house on Baker, Mom's blueberry pie in the fridge, Dad maybe up watching late-night
TV
in the rec room. The sheets, the pillows, the bed. I'll go when he makes the corner.

He hears a rustling in the bushes and wonders if all hobos are cannibals or just some.

There he is – a speck rounding the corner right across from him. He waves, but Slim doesn't look up, just pulls the door of the Bin, a belch of smoke coming out, and then he's gone.

He watches the door, thinking, I'll just wait a bit, make sure it's all going okay with Francie. Just in case he needs me.

But Slim never needs anything. He's been getting himself into shit as long as Heck has known him. Always with that cocky little smirk and a shrug, like the shit could never be deep enough. So you go along because he makes it look so cool.

He waits, watches, but Slim doesn't come out. He might be in there fighting with Francie, or what if Milly's in there, or what if he's waiting in his car for Slim to come out? What if he needs him – Slim never needing anything – anybody – but what if he does, just this once?

Well, what can he do anyway? Milly is a cold-blooded psycho, for sure. Heck knows somebody that seen him kick a baby carriage once. And if you buy weed from him, even if it's through Dunc, he wants names and addresses, so he can climb through your bedroom window if you ever rat on him. Milly won't think twice about slitting his throat if he gets in the way. Maybe even stop to lick the blood off his cold dead corpse.

This was Slim's shit to deal with, he dug the hole. Last summer, he let Slim talk him into having a party at his place when his parents were out of town, and when somebody tossed the couch through the picture window he said,
Last time, Slim, I let you drag me into your shit
.

And anyway, Slim told him to stay out of it.

So he should just go home. The door to the Bin's not opening. The Beetle's not moving. He's just sitting here, his ass going numb, watching with a busted watch in his hand, so he should just go. That watch – his best friend's most prized possession in the world, and that kind of trust's gotta be worth something. Worth something more than watching. More than watching being what Slim would do for him – no matter what anybody told him to do otherwise. Slim the first one diving headfirst into the shit right after him.

So he's not going home. Not anywhere close.

‘Okay, thanks, Irene – I'm headin out.' Wrapping her scarf around her head like she's Grace Kelly and doing up her jacket. She shuts down the rest of the lights in the dining room and blows a kiss to Velma, still cleaning up in the kitchen.

She pushes out onto the empty street, a wet chill creeping into the air. She turns her key in the lock.

‘Mrs. Novak?'

Martha jumps at the sound and turns to see that chubby boy – Slim's friend, the one who likes her cooking – running across the road. ‘Hello, Hector. What're you doin out so late?'

‘It's not.' He's out of breath when he gets to her, babbling between gasps. ‘It's not my – my fault, Mrs. Novak, I told him but you know – know him, never listens and I wanted to go with him, but he told me to stay put, but he's in trouble – big trouble – like really big trouble and I didn't know what else to do so I come over here hoping – '

‘What trouble – is it Slim?'

‘Yeah – he – he – ' Hector doubles over and pukes on the sidewalk. She pulls a tissue out of her purse and gives it to him, letting him wipe his mouth and steady himself. She takes a deep breath.

‘Was it Gordon?' The goon. She'd call the cops on him.

‘Who?'

‘Did Gordon hurt him?' She'd kill him.

‘What? No, he stole some body and then he dumped it in the crick and then we gone in there looking for it and we been shot at and we almost got in a car wreck and now he's gone lookin for Francie and Milly's lookin for him and I almost got eaten by cannibal hobos in the park – '

‘Shut up.' She shakes him hard by the shoulders. ‘Someone's tryin to hurt him?'

‘Yeah.' Hector looking at her with tears in his eyes. ‘Someone real bad.'

Her mind sliding back to that afternoon at Nibblers – that stringy fuck in the red plaid with the rubber boots. Asking about Slim. And when she told him where to go, that cold look in his eyes. This is her fault. She should've done something then.

‘Where is he now?'

‘The Nickel Bin.' Hector gets his hands on her shoulders too, almost like they're holding each other. ‘And we can't go to the cops.'

‘Okay.' Her mind spilling out all over the place, running through all the faces she could count on. A short list, none of them downtown except Lucy, who'd only get her more hysterical than she feels right now. Coming back to where it all started. ‘Okay.'

She grabs Hector's arm and they start off down the street, him blubbering beside her.

‘Where're we goin?'

‘To get some help.'

He looks at her, salty stains on his cheeks. ‘Jeepers, you look old with your scarf like that.'

‘Shut up and wipe your face.'

They're up Larch to the brick face of the Coulson, Martha scanning the building and then yanking open a side door and holding it for Hector. Her head's splitting because she's out of cigarettes and she doesn't feel like dealing with any bullshit. ‘You can come up, but you gotta keep quiet.'

He nods. They climb to the top floor, Hector panting, and then down the hall, holes in the plaster and the carpet stained with puke and maybe blood. She doesn't know what number it is, and then she recognizes the cowboy boots placed carefully next to the door at the very end. So, he got them back. She knocks and gives Hector a quick remember-what-I-told-you look.

The door swings open and he's standing there, shirt off – filling the doorway. When he sees her, he doesn't look embarrassed or try to cover up. He's not showing off either. That's just the way he is.

‘Hey, Gordon.'

He nods at her, like her knocking at two o'clock in the morning isn't out of the ordinary. Standing there, his pale skin stippled with old scars. Some she remembers, some new ones too. He looks at Hector, taking him in – the kid's eyes bugging at the size of him.

‘This's Hector – a friend … of my son's.' Hector shuffles his feet and mouths
Hey
, Gordon's dark eyes shifting back to her. His nose going black with the bruising. ‘Look, I don't know how you got those boots back, and I don't care right now. I need your help.'

And he doesn't ask questions, just turns and heads into the apartment, leaving the door hanging open. Almost empty, but what is there – a few books, a knick-knack or two, the glass terrarium – is placed carefully. Painfully.

‘Wowsers!' Hector has snuck into the apartment and is staring at something tacked to the wall. The only thing on any of the walls. A hockey card. The pin right through the player's heart.

‘Wowsers!' he shouts again and turns to look at Gordon. ‘Number thirteen, Gordon ‘The Python' Uranium, defence, you had forty-three goals and sixty-one assists and 111 penalty minutes in '67–'68, your last season. That's like a team record. You were gonna get drafted, like maybe number three overall – over
all
! Wowsers, my dad would never believe it – he said you were the best. Why didn't you play in the
NHL
? Didn't you want to? My dad loves the Jets. You coulda played with Hawerchuk on the Jets – that woulda been rad. I mean, you're old, but you coulda played with him when he was a rookie. Why didn't you?'

But Gordon doesn't say anything. Doesn't even act like he's heard. He pulls on a stained grey sweater and grabs his jacket and out he goes, leaving Martha to shoo Hector out, still waiting for an answer.

They take turns babbling at him from each shoulder, Gordon measuring long strides so that maybe they'll run out of breath and shut the hell up. Something about her son, she says, something about a girl named Milly, he says. The temperature's rising all across the downtown, vapour coming up from the sewers, and there's that tight feeling to everything. Something about this, something about that – someone's gonna die tonight. That's the feeling he's getting. Like skating the blue line, waiting for an attack, but the puck just keeps cycling back and forth, your insides getting sicker and tighter with each pass. You know eventually it's all gonna play out.

They get up to the soot-smeared brick of the Nickel Bin, and he tries the door – locked, but there're some lights on yet. He bangs on the door, metal ringing.

There's some muffled cursing, more noises, and then the door bangs open, Foisey standing there looking tired and crabby. ‘We're fuckin closed.' Then, noticing him, ‘Gordo, what the fuck – you come to return the slippers?'

He looks at Martha, cuing her to start the talking thing again.

‘We're looking for Slim.'

‘Oh, hey, Martha, I didn't recognize you under that whole schoolmarm thing.'

Gordon takes a look over Foisey's shoulder, the bar dark and empty-looking.

‘He in there?' Martha says.

‘He was bout an hour ago. Looking for his girl, Francie. Figure they're all down at Fitzroy's now.'

‘Roy who?' Martha says.

‘The speakeasy – you know the one, Gordo.'

He nods, never been one for parties, but he helped Fitzroy put a new roof on a few years back. Fitz pouring ginger beer down his throat and Nora sending him home with enough salt fish and ackee to feed an army.

Then the kid with the mullet pipes up. ‘What about Milly?'

Foisey swallows hard and Gordon can see him turn nervous all over again like he did that morning. ‘I told that kid, stay off the fuckin streets tonight. Some people just got a death wish, eh, Gordo?' And with that, he bangs the door closed. The sound of a latch turning.

Martha pulls the scarf off, letting the curls out. ‘Lead the way.'

Gordon heads for the underpass, where it all started last night. Twenty-four hours hanging off him like a lifetime. What a fuckin day. Overtime, and it just won't end.

They clear everybody out of the basement, no charges laid, thank criss, and by the time the officer's finished giving him the inquisition, Moony's sobered up enough to give a look of shame and guilt sufficiently convincing to keep him out of the back of the squad car.

‘Neighbour called in, said there was a fight.' The lump of muscle fondling his notebook. ‘Who'd you fight with?'

‘My stomach.'

The officer gives him a don't-be-smart look. ‘I should take you in for public intoxication.'

Moony shuffles his feet in what he hopes is an apologetic fashion. ‘Just a bad night, s'all.'

The officer sighs. ‘You live far from here?'

Moony shakes his head and points vaguely. ‘Just up the way.'

‘Well.' The officer is giving him a look – the anger already fading to pity, something Moony's much more familiar with. ‘Just get yourself home pronto, okay?'

He nods quickly, wringing his hands like something out of a Dickens novel. Keeping the act going until the squad car's off down the street.

Fitzroy comes out onto his front porch, leans on the railing smoking a pipe.

‘Really sorry, Fitz.'

The old black man shakes his head slow from side to side, rhythmically. ‘Not cool, mon.'

‘Just wait a few days and you can get it all started back up again – same as ever.' But even as he says it, they both know. The clouds peeling back slow and an overripe moon up there. Things weren't going to be the same.

Fitzroy keeps on shaking and walks back to the door. ‘Not cool.'

Moony tromps off down Riverside. The snow around Fitzroy's all stampeded by the partygoers, but when he gets to the next corner, it's still fresh. He's stepping on his own footprints in reverse – him and Lorenzo. And two more sets in the gutter, going back this way. Small ones, the girl, and the larger ones, the boy trailing after.

Taught so many kids over the years, he doesn't remember these two. Should he remember them? He remembers them now – tonight – isn't that enough? And who should he be more thankful for – her for her lips or him for his fists. He remembers himself tonight, remembers all of himself and that's enough. Start fresh from that.

He looks up and sees three people coming toward him. A big guy out in front in a green work jacket. Walking with purpose. He thinks about crossing over but it's too late.